Finding the Joy

On September 6, I raced the Vapor Trail 125 in Salida, CO. 125 miles, a hell of a lot of climbing, a 10 p.m. start, and mountain passes over 12,000 feet. Regardless of who you ask, I think they’ll tell you this race is a beast.

Anyone who knows me well knows I love riding my bike. Moving through the mountains on a bike feels like magic to me. That feeling of looking off into the distance and seeing where you’ll be in a few hours, or where you were a few hours ago, never gets old. I love planning the “big dumb rides” (as my friends so lovingly call them). I love dialing in the gear. I love the feeling of knowing something might go wrong, but that I’ve got the tools and experience to figure it out. That’s what initially drew me to Vapor. It’s an event that isn’t about your FTP or your VO₂ max. It’s about getting on your bike, doing something hard, and maybe learning something about yourself along the way.

I can’t speak for other riders, but for me, one of the best parts of these endurance events is the lead-up work: spending hours in the saddle, tinkering with gear, thinking about potential curveballs, and dialing in a plan. The things you learn along the way feel so much more important than the outcome of the actual event. The feeling of doing well in a race will fade, but the self-reliance that you build in preparation never goes away. When people asked me, “Are you nervous?” in the weeks leading up to Vapor, all I could really say was, “No.” My legs felt strong, I had a plan, so all I had to do was show up and ride my bike.

As a morning person, the 10 p.m. start is one of the most challenging parts of Vapor. Luckily, I ran into my old buddy Eric on the rollout from town, so the first couple of hours flew by. About 15 miles in, we hit some faster sections of trail, so I reached down to click on my handlebar light. Clicked the button, nothing. Clicked it again, still nothing. Click, click, click, nada.

Well, shit. Not the mechanical I was expecting, but there was a plan for this. I had stashed a backup light in my supply box, which my partner Nora had at the first aid station. The next 10 miles were spent riding a bit too close to Eric’s wheel, trying to mooch as much of his light as I could.

Other than riding with just a headlamp, I made it to Aid 1 relatively uneventfully. Nora and I had planned what food, fluids, and creature comforts I’d get from her there. As soon as she saw me, she jumped into action. Swapping my bottles and stuffing food into my pockets while I worked on getting my headlight swapped out. A bit more frazzled than expected, and couple of minutes slower, but I was out of Aid 1 in relatively little time. Contingency plan executed, problem solved, and moving again.

There isn’t much exciting about the next section of the course. Cruise up a long gravel road past St. Elmo, up some wet Continental Divide singletrack, alternate between riding and pushing up and over Hancock and Tomichi Pass, then hike-a-bike up to the top of Canyon Creek. For me, it’s the part of the route where I just put my head down and do the work, one foot in front of the other.

Eric and I got to the top of Canyon Creek together. A couple of headlights twinkled on the descent ahead of us, and a long string of them twinkled behind us. Eric threw on some layers and was off in no time. I could feel myself fading a bit and couldn’t get excited about eating any more gels, so I took a few extra minutes to eat some solid food. Choked down a couple of Tofurky and cheese wraps, and I was off. The darkness adds a bit of spice, but the Canyon Creek descent is excellent. I made it to Aid 2 right on schedule. Socks were soaked from crossing the creek, but spirits were high. Lube the chain, drink a Coke, strip some layers, and hop back on the bike.

It seems that most people dread the Old Monarch climb, but honestly, it’s one of my favorite parts. It gives you some time to appreciate where you are, and for me, some time to reminisce on all the great days out that got me to this point. It’s a bittersweet point in the ride. Loving the moment while simultaneously wishing I could be out riding with friends instead. Days spent bantering on the climbs and hollering on the descents. Sharing snacks and good times, doing something that makes you feel like a kid again. Those are the days that bring me the most joy. The ones where you start early and end late, something probably goes wrong, you’re totally fried by the time you finish, but you can’t wipe the shit-eating grin off your face.

Through the mist, and I’m at the top before I know it, excited to get to Monarch Pass to see Nora and eat some food. A quick descent down to Highway 50, and there’s Nora waving me into the aid station. As always, she’s on point, removing my lights, grabbing food, helping me change my socks. This aid station is great. The vibes are good, and the volunteers are excellent. A few minutes of human connection, a Coke and pouch of Neve gulped down, a couple of pieces of pizza to-go, and I’m off again.

In 2024, the second half of the course felt like a death march. This year, it just flew by. It was proper type 1-fun mountain biking the whole way. I was dreading the Starvation loop, but ran into Jeff Kerkove just in time for that section. Sometimes having someone around is all you need to stay present and enjoy the moment. We rode together until Rainbow Trail, but at some point Jeff just completely dropped me. I feel like I blinked, and all of a sudden he was gone. Simply flying.

Most days, I hate the Rainbow Trail, but this year I told myself I was going to enjoy it. Riding fast when I could, hiking when I needed to, smiling either way. And then I heard it, the unmistakable sound of air rushing out of a tire. About a mile from Highway 285, probably due to some mix of mental fatigue and excitement to be done, I got a little sloppy. My tire was completely flat before I could even stop.

Deep breath. Flip the bike. Find the hole. I grabbed the plugs out of my vest and jammed three into my tire and popped in a little CO₂. The plugs seemed to seal, but I could still hear a leak. Spin the tire. Find another hole. Jam in two more plugs. Blast in the rest of the CO₂, and I was back on the trail. Plan executed. Problem solved.

The rest of the ride doesn’t warrant many words. I just hammered out the pavement section as fast as I could. It’s not the most glamorous ending to such an epic route, but it gives you time to process and reflect. I went in to Vapor this year without a clear-cut goal. I wanted to go faster than last year and feel better when I got to the finish. I did both of those things, and I’m content with that. But what I’ll cherish the most about this race is how it condenses all the joy of a season into a tight, tangible experience. The joy of the highs and the lows. The joy of all the work that went into getting to this exact spot. The joy of finding your limits and pushing past them. The joy of seeing the friends and family that show up to help. The joy of having a plan and executing it. The joy of realizing you’re still smiling 14 hours in.

The joy of riding your bike.

Words by Tom Kvilhaug

Photos by Jace Stout